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Observations
sensitive topic - mental health A lonely book, left abandoned on the ground. Do you dare take a look? ---- I'm cold. I've always been cold, that stupid chill that shivers through my sides at random moments. I hate it. Despise it, but there isn't really a way to get rid of it. Even under three layers of fur, it's there. Until it's not. And then the air is sickly and stuffed, and suddenly I can't breathe and all I want is to be outside on a crisp morning and breathing in the cold, the cold that comes back only for me to wish it was gone. I need water, but - writing. Writing is fun, isn't it? They've said that before. And it is, it is until I shiver, and like everything else I'll neglect to do it for a month. I've seen this happen enough for it to be a pattern. It's - I wish I wasn't like that. But really, what can I do? What can you do? You're a book. A worn out, boring one at that. Blank, but already decaying. What can you do? Nothing. Exactly. I think I'm going to get another blanket. ----- Here. Another layer. Hopefully that fights off the cold for a bit longer. I doubt it though. It's funny, isn't it? I'm shivering, and all those little tangles along my spine that suggest doom and and a strong wind of I-want-to-curl-up-and-do-nothing-for-a-month. That'd make time pass quicker. I'd like that. Hm. I just reread what I wrote and it seems I went of on a tangent. Lines up with my rambling behavior when I speak too, I suppose. Why did I ever think I could be different? Anyway... yes, I'm shivering. Yet they all say I'm warm, like I'm a SandWing but more... comfortable. My talons radiate heat, and they're forced about, expected to warm other's scales. I would say I'm... okay with that. It's awkward, but I don't mind to much. Not like the NightWing that glared at me when I accidentally bumped into her. I'm glad I'm not like her. But I don't like how I can be so warm around them, tossed about in a sea of cold-I-enjoy. Only to come back to this. To you. I'm sorry, it's not you. Maybe it's you. I only just started writing in you, didn't I? Perhaps you're the one bringing the chill. I could throw you out and see if that's true. But... I like writing in you. So... I guess you'll stay. ---- I want to talk to someone, but talking wears me out. I'm tired. I'm sorry, I have so much to say and yet i can barely move. I'm sorry. Good night, I suppose. ---- There’s a bag in that room. I always forget it exists until I wander in and see it. No, I don’t wander. I pass though, and that brown stitched thing always catches my eye. There’s peels inside. From fruit that we tried once. But it’s also been there for days - weeks - maybe a moon or two. Not the place we usually eat so it was left in that bag. I forget about it - I think everyone does. And now I’m writing about this, aren’t I? Perhaps I’ll remember to take it out. No one’s touched it yet. Not since we first left it there. It’s so easy to just throw the contents out - and it doesn’t smell. Not yet. But it’s been weeks or moons or however long it’s been, and it’s hard enough to even come close. More so to pick it up and toss it out. The longer it’s there, the harder it is to throw it away. Because it’s only going to get worse, isn’t it? I don’t want to do it. Maybe someone else will get rid of that accursed bag. Except they haven’t yet. The best time to throw it away was when we first ate that fruit. Any time before now would have been better. And it’ll only get worse and harder. But I think we all act like, well. Pretending it doesn’t exist will make it disappear. ---- I threw it out. I got rid of it. It's gone. I wasn't curious enough to look inside. But it's gone. I threw it away before it was too hard to do so, the bag is gone. If only it were that easy elsewhere. ---- The bag is gone. Funny how the moment it disappears, it's one of the few things on my mind. It was the second Right Thing I've done recently. But... it's so different. Previous Right Thing was not as easy. I let things drag on two much, and cutting it off even then hurt. But it would have been harder, if I let it on longer. But it was different. Different in so many ways, and the only similarity is because they were both 'right.' The bag was easy. The Right Thing didn't have to happen. I could keep on without doing that. The consequences certainly weren't as simple. That Right Thing had uncertain consequences, and uncertainty... scars me. It turned out ok. I shouldn't have expected more. Sometimes I wonder, even as it's so tangibly close, I think a lot about it. If I should have done that Right Thing. But... putting this all down on paper means others can find it. There are some things that I want to tell you, little book, but... I can't. I'm sorry. I've descended to apologizing to a book. But you don't judge me, and there isn't much more I can ask for, huh? The bag was easy. Results easy to see and well defined. A burden I removed. That was simple. That was easier than the Right Thing. But I did the Right Thing anyway, because it was the 'morally correct' path. It still hurts. I need some time... it's so close and yet the intermediate days are long. I'm tired. I need to smile tomorrow. Please, little book, just confirm for me. I need another voice but I'm too afraid to ask. Should I have done the right thing? ---- I want to go home. I am home. This is not home. ---- I am not fine. I am fine. I am luckier than half the dragons out there, I know. But does that really mean my own personal struggles aren't valid? Of course it doesn't. But I can't stay like this forever, can I? I'm not even hidden. I'm centered in the main cave, my family wandering off with their business. And I am lonely, because we don't speak to each other, because family or not we still pass each other silently like strangers. I know what the right thing to do here is. Talk to them. Interact, start living again. Yet talking to you is still so much easier, and my mind disappears into the next thing I want to write and worries about the Right Thing that life is passing by my glazed eyes. I have talons. I can seize life with them and live. But... it's hard. But hard hasn't stopped me before, with the Right Thing. This right thing can fix me. I know it, I can feel it, but I'm still... lingering. It takes time. But time isn't flowing smoothly now. It's like that hourglass that my friend fiddles with. Looming, large in her claws. Ticking off the passage. Except my hourglass is far larger, and lets out only a grain at a time. ---- I don't want to wait. I want to do so much right now, I want time to flow away, to stop dragging by in short, halted steps. I need this time. I need it to heal, if only it would do it faster. I need this. I need this slow, stilled passage, if only it would smooth out a little, it'd be perfect. I'd still twitch and wish everything was done, but I need this. It hasn't been that long since the Right Thing. I need the time. I know it's true. I'm sorry that I've repeated myself so many times, little book. The rhythm of time and how perhaps I know it will help. I need to hang on longer. I know you can't talk, but I can feel it, you know? Even without emotions, you're weary of my complaints, like everyone else. But you're still here... that's more than I can ask for. The sun outside is bright. It should be waking me up but a glance and I want to shut up my eyes for hours. It's too bright and happy and perfect. I want rain, I want chilliness and quietude and other tranquil words. Please confirm. Confirm I don't need help, I just need time. I need to wait. ---- You're pretty. I haven't been kind thus far. But you should know. You're pretty, with those patterned black covers, they're still holding up. Your spine is still hanging on to the pages, and none have fallen out. You're pretty, thank you for being here. Your pages are thin and yellow and fragile, but I can still write on them. My words are messy, but you stay so perfect and wonderful and... Thank you for being here. ---- My claws taste like the cold. ---- I like noise. I like warmth. I want to talk to someone. I'm certain now. The Right Thing was not a mistake for me. It was what I should have done. Regret lingers, but I'm pushing it out. Aren't you proud of me? I think I'll be okay again. Dragons make mistakes. We all do. Was the beginning to my need to do the Right Thing, all those years ago, a mistake? Were the consequences a mistake? Those years ago... I wouldn't take that decision back. It was wrong, sure, but it made me so much happier. It gave me a piece of my life, something that I threatened to give up by doing the Right Thing. A wonderful imperfect piece, one that I never want to let go of. I don't feel that the result was a mistake, because I can still access that part of my life. It's just not the same. I've let go of a smaller piece... and now They say that was a mistake. They seem to think I should be angry. I'm not. I was tired and struggling and I can tell, full of pain and longing and exhaustion and so many other words that send shards into my heart - but I was not angry. I used to be angry, I still am sometimes. But I think I'm getting better at controlling myself. Control. ---- I lived today. For a few hours. It felt like... I can breathe again. ---- Midnight ramblings. I never finished them - sleep was so alluring at the time. But I suppose I could fix that now. I like control. Certainty. Knowing something is going to happen, the hows the whys, the whens the wheres. Control... less of being able dictate what another does, but more... It's difficult to say. I want more connections. Friendships and closeness and being with others, because even as it drains me it makes me happy. Control. No, I just want to know what happens and how to deal with them. I want confidence. I want certainty a thousand times over, because suddenly the certainty about the Right Thing is gone. The numbers in the vague fog of the future are gone. I don't know how big my hourglass is anymore. That scares me. I only wander into uncertainty for the sake of putting handles to grip into it and shape it into something defined. Yes... I don't like control. I like the things it brings. ---- No one knows. No one knows about the Right Thing except me and Them and You. Except I've been vague to you - I hate vague - because vague protects. Without certainty you have to guess and guesses can be wrong and you won't know if it's right until the veil is gone. And sometimes it never leaves. Uncertainty is safety. ---- Smiling alone still feels wrong. ---- Wonderful. I still hate interaction. It's too difficult. Think, for just a moment. I want to talk to people. To get friends that care that aren't made through a screen of lies. Dragons who see who I am, and decide I'm worth becoming their friend. I suppose I'm not the best material for that. Especially since I shy away, while at the same moment being entirely aware of the opportunities lost and not caring. I should care more but I don't. Until I do, in those midnight scribbles, you know? No, you don't. I used to date things. Write the time I wrote it in the corner. I don't anymore. Time doesn't matter anymore. Hours fly past and seconds drag reluctantly by. When the consistent measure isn't consistent anymore, why use it? I write as consistently as I can - as in, whenever I want to. It's good enough. It's close enough. It's the best I can do. Is it really good enough? This. Doesn't. Matter. ---- A day away. A day filled with others and crowded spots and shouted voices and noise and too many dragons too close together and too much going on at once. I am tired, I am energized. Amazed, disappointed, stressed, relieved. I'm a mess, and I do sort of prefer that. The flight was long and when I came back, my parents couldn't come - or were too tired to come. So I flew back with another family. They forced me to eat. Not force, but it was late and I was tired and they pushed me towards eating. And I did. Their place was pretty. Nicer, brighter, with a dog roaming around, one that couldn't disturb the tranquility of the place. Our parents came from the same place - Sky Kingdom, but all the little provinces and things had such varying cultures. They asked where my parents were from. I didn't know. Well I did, vaguely, but the words didn't fit on my tongue right and I wasn't sure and you should know how I feel about being not sure. But the food was good. They were neat and nice and I loved that casual relationship between child and parents and - My mouth burns and my throat feels sour but. I wish my family was more like that. And then I wish I didn't think that. ---- "Feathers." That's what he calls me. He says it in a weird way that irks me somewhat, even though I really want to laugh, it's the front I put forth. He does it anyway, became I'm never serious in my refusals of that nickname. Feathers... it's not even vaguely close to my name. The logic is interesting, but at the moment I don't trust you enough to say. I'm sorry. Maybe I like him. I was more certain months ago, but now? I recognize him quickly - that omnipresent blue scarf, the rounded snout and eyes twisted into a squinted smile. His talons are thin and long, tipped with slender claws. I notice those things. Yet... I twine tails with my friends. Brush wings, pat their heads and boop their snouts. I wrap them in wings when they feel down, poke shoulders and lean against them. I'm physically comfortable. Not with him. We're careful not to touch. There are still a few head bops - that's how we tease each other, after all - but touches are limited. Fake slaps happen, pointed talons, but never true, comfortable touching. Is he just a friend? I wish I knew. ---- This is home. This might not be the best place in the world, but this is still home. I am not cold. I am happy. This is home. ---- I tossed something at him. Purposely so he didn't see it, because every decision in that moment was irrational and from a frazzled mind that was muddling and taking shortcuts that skipped over reasoning. He noticed. He asked what it was, because the thing fell and quickly disappeared into the dragons surrounding us. I'm lucky it did. I didn't tell him - and every following question was answered with a smile. A smile because I was laughing inside, a smile because my little doodles of them look patronizing. I suppose that was the feel I was going for. But I wasn't keeping from him because I was rude, or enjoyed his confusion or... I don't know why else I would do it. Except personal embarrassment, I suppose. Point is, he'll never know. I'd make sure of it. The origami heart with feathered wings is my secret, and no one else's. ---- I have a headache. I always do here, in school, with the too bright fires too close together painting the warm brown stones in a light that reaches and burrows painfully into my skull. I don't feel comfortable here. Friends are here. But are twitches of not the chill but the pain, the woolen fog that attempts to bury my thoughts and the random tangs of realizing one place is uncomfortable, then the other. I don't like it here. Here, I want to be home. Home, I want to be elsewhere, but never here. I am a top student. Classes others struggle and drag through are easy breezes for me. No. They slog through as well, but I put in just enough effort to stay top. I'm smart, my friends insist, and I know it's true. I am above average in those terms, and it's factual even as it sounds rude and like I'm simply boosting myself by putting down others. I wish it didn't sound that way. But school is easy, practically useless, and all this time I could spend sleeping and writing. It's too bright for my tired eyes and this brightness makes me want to vanish and sleep all the more. I hate this place. My left shoulder hurts even though it's just resting there and it looks normal and I haven't done anything with it. I'm not cold, but right now I'd rather have the cold. I hate it here. I want to go back to the chill. ---- As the day goes on, I feel better. All I need is sleep or time to awake, and I'll get better. I wish I could start sleeping earlier. Then those morning hours might not be so miserable. I doubt it but... I've never tried. ---- Category:Fanfictions Category:Fanfictions (Incomplete) Category:Genre (Epistolary) Category:Content (Cloud the IceWing) Category:Fanfictions (Fanon) Category:Mature Content